


hand over wound

by forest_creatures



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Canon-Typical Angst, Exploration of Ortega and Sidestep's Relationship, F/M, Partly an excuse to play around with form and writing styles, Sidestep's an unrepentant unreliable narrator, pre-heartbreak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29868657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forest_creatures/pseuds/forest_creatures
Summary: He wants to stay.(you’ve never had anyone who wants to stay before.)--Or, a series of one-shots exploring Ortega and Sidestep's dynamic, pre-Heartbreak
Relationships: Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero), Ricardo Ortega/Sidestep
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	hand over wound

**Author's Note:**

> or, FHR has been living rent free in my head lately. this is absolutely an excuse to explore Chargestep pre-heartbreak, as well as play around with writing styles and form. it isn't what I normally write, so I'm a bit... ah? but I love them very dearly <3

You’re in an apartment that isn’t yours with a man you shouldn’t trust and a gut bleeding out over his nice, expensive bathroom, and that doesn’t sound like the start of a bad joke so much as the start of the end of your life. 

(If you could call it a life, if you could call it anything more than all your stolen seconds ticking down to this moment. Torn stitches— fucking stupid, _stupid_ mistake, this is how they’re going to get you—)

(He’ll take you to a hospital and they’ll look and they’ll know and he’ll know and and and)

Fuck.

Two choices:

One. You can suck it up, ask for a first aid kit—he’ll have one, twice as nice as the one you’ve got and he doesn’t even need it—all those Ranger benefits he keeps trying to entice you with, _go team!_ Maybe even some halfway decent painkillers.

You lock yourself in the bathroom, stitch yourself up clean enough to get out of here without bleeding on his floor, too. You can meet his questions with a hard laugh and a _fuck off I’m fine go finish making the food I’m starving._

(and why the fuck did you come here why did you let yourself get swayed by his fast grins and his bright eyes? He isn’t your friend, he _isn’t,_ even if he thinks he is.)

_Fuck._

Two. You make a run for it. More questions. Potential for passing out in a dark alley. Vulnerable and wounded until you can get back to your own shitty place and hope to god Ortega doesn’t think to follow you. Which he will, you know he will, and you’re fast but he’s always been faster, just as quick on the draw with a mind of static to take your edge. 

You pull the tight undershirt up higher, flinching at the sight of your own skin, focus on the blood rolling sluggish and hot instead of the flinty orange patterns. The wound’s deep and fresh and curled like a crooked smile. 

Black clothes help. Red splatters vibrantly on the white marble counter, onto the floor, sticks to the soles of your feet (bare, shoes kicked off at the door.) You’ll have to clean that up. How the hell will you do that? With his goddamn bleach white towels? 

God— fucking— _fuck._

Okay. You can do this. You just ask. Ask for the first aid kit. Slam the door in his face. Or run. 

You want to run. Feel that rabbit-heart drive bursting up under the skin to book it and maybe that’s what you need to do. Yes. That’s what you need to do. Leave Ortega the mess—you’ve saved his ass enough times you won’t feel bad about it, or at least not so bad you’ll apologize for it later (you never apologize, even when you maybe should) and—

A knock, and you jump, gasp. “Still alive in there?” He asks, that same smile-lilt to his voice. He’s teasing you, a little, but there’s an edge of concern too. 

(shitshitshitshitshitshitfuck)

“Just give me a second.” You bite out, trying to sound put upon rather than panicked. 

Shirt tugged down— _fuck, that hurts_ —and your teeth sink into soft cheeks, hard enough to sting. 

A pause. You wait for the sound of footsteps to move away from the door. Silence, instead.

Exhale. 

“—Hey, are you alright?”

_Goddamnit._

“I’m fine,” you drop to your knees and your side screams and the blood gets stickier, you can feel the fabric dragging with every move. Throw open the cabinets. Maybe he was organized for once in his life and put the first aid kit in here (fat chance) and nothing, nothing, just bare bones cleaning supplies. 

Frustration and pain build up, you slam the cabinet with a teeth-clenched groan and the knock comes again, more insistent this time, hard knuckles on hard wood— _can’t you just fuck off can’t you leave me alone why did i come here—_

“Noa. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. God, what do you want?” You snarl, voice raising to a pitch.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” Your hand clutches at your side and comes away red, smeary. You have to do something, you have to move. Think. You can’t stay here. 

He’s not going to let you go. You should’ve just run while you had the chance, now he’s just outside the door waiting, on alert, knows you better than anyone (which isn’t saying much but it’s saying enough) and knows enough to not let you just snarl your way out of this. 

Shaky inhale. “Maybe.”

“Okay,” he breathes— _relief?_ you don’t know and it chafes, what’s there to be relieved about?—gives a softer laugh, “no big deal. Just open the door.” 

You don’t want to do that. You really, really don’t want to do that. He’s going to want to help, he’s going to want to see, the way you’ve helped him before.

(warm brown skin interrupted by mods and scar tissue and the expanse of his back, defined muscle rippling under your fingertips— _stay still,_ you snap, smacking his shoulder, and he laughs— _ouch, watch it, I’m wounded—_ and _that’s your own fault you idiot,_ needle/thread, and you lay his stitches so much neater than your own.)

“I… can’t.”

“...You can’t?”

“No.”

“Is it that bad?” His voice takes on a new edge, sharper now, the kind of break down the door, get the job done edge that comes with being a Ranger, you suppose. Not quite hard, still light enough to pass for his brand of charm-sly soothing, but you know better than to fall for that.

“I’m fine. Can you just…” you push up onto your feet, choking down another groan, pain splitting through your side like a disc-saw, “can you just get the first aid kit?” 

You think you hear a faint curse, and then: “yeah, be right back.”

In the space between, panic sets in.

Panic’s a cold emotion, and it’s a sick kind of luxury. You never got to panic before, riding it out out out all silent scream while everyone else’s thoughts and feelings stuck to your teeth, wormed down to the base of your spine. With Ortega you’re alone in your head and the only thing left to do is wait. Fists clench, ease the shaking. 

A few minutes pass, tick-tick-tick, and he’s at the door again, knock softer this time, and _please, please, please leave me alone_ you want to say but you don’t, you just press your palm (red-stark) to your side, and maybe— maybe if you slam it open, it’ll knock him back long enough to give you a head start. You just have to get out—

“Noa.” He knocks again, and you think you hear his breath hitch, maybe, and you want to know what he’s thinking, you want to know so badly but it’s just deafening silence outside the door.

“Yeah… yeah.” 

One hand to your pulsing gut, one hand shaking, the knob unlocks with a soft click, and you’re stumbling back into the bathroom, and he’s there, filling the doorway, eyes soft-hard and brow furrowed. His eyes flick over the counter, the floor (blood splatters, streaks of it) and he lets out another quiet string of curses, “what the hell happened—?” 

He’s moving forward, and you stumble back till your knees hit the toilet.

You both still. Freeze. He’s got you cornered, and he knows it, he must know it, _fuckfuckfuck—_ breathe, you have to breathe.

“You didn’t tell me you were hurt.” He murmurs, softer than before, one hand curled around the green-white first aid kit. Bandages. Stitches. Alcohol.

Maybe you could grab it. Run? No, that’s stupid— he’ll just grab you, shove you back, ask for answers you can’t and won’t give.

Fuck.

Again, you say: “I’m fine,” and feel your lips curl back, a snarl fit for a dog in a ring.

“Yeah, you look it,” he shakes his head, tries to smile, like he isn’t surprised but he wishes it were different, and he’s not going to get mad at you, not yet, we all get hurt in this business _but it still can’t be different, it can’t be, asshole, so stop asking,_ “c’mon, let’s… go in the living room, and I’ll—”

“No,” you snap hard, working around the toilet toward the counter. A little more room that way, and you won’t sit, even though you’re starting to feel it, the shakes and the dizziness. Drip, drip, drip, and your hand curls tighter over your stomach.

“No?” He blinks, more confused than offended.

( _you have such a delicate touch,_ he scoffs as you wrap pristine white bandages over the stitched gash, rough but slow, and you roll your eyes _don’t get fucking shanked next time then,_ and he gasps, mock-offense, brown eyes sparkling, searching your mask for expression he won’t find but you’re smiling, you’re smiling because he’s beautiful.)

“Just give it to me. I can deal with it myself.” 

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” It is.

“Sure it isn’t.”

“It’s just a flesh wound, alright? Someone got a lucky scratch in that last fight. Didn’t think it’d open again. But it’s not that bad.”

“Well, I’m still not going to leave you here to stitch yourself up.”

Fucking— always so _stubborn,_ why won’t he quit? 

“Either give it or I leave. Take your pick.” 

He stills, watching you, and you wonder how you look to him.

Like a scared animal? Wounded little monster he found and picked up for some fucking reason? What does he want with you? What is he thinking? 

His eyes trail over you, clothes all black and layered, baggy enough to hide everything, 

“You’re kidding.” He wants you to be kidding.

“Do I look like it?” You tilt your head back, challenging, stilling up—shoulders stiffen, legs numb, prepared to run or to fight. Like he’s not blocking the only exit, like he’s not the one person in the world you can’t outmaneuver—Sidestep brought down by a head full of silence and a pretty fucking face.

They would laugh at you. They will if this escalates, if he sees. He’s got all his good intentions, it’ll be the death of you. He’ll be the death of you.

“So what’s it gonna be?” It’s supposed to sound like a sneer-snarl but it comes out weak, the razor edge of fear sliding just under your tongue.

But he must miss it. Or chalk it up to something else. “You’re being ridiculous,” he shakes his head, “it’s really not an issue.”

Ortega, always believing the best of you. That you don’t want to inconvenience him. 

He wants to stay.

(you’ve never had anyone who wants to stay before.)

“I just wanna do it myself, fucks sake.” You burst, cutting him off at the finish line, and now you’re up on your feet, reaching with your free hand for the kit, ripping it from his hand.

“Just...” what was the line? “Just go finish making the food, alright? I’m starving.” and he lets you take it, lets you slam it down on the counter. You drop your blood-wet palm and clench it, as if to say _see I’m fine it’s not that bad_ and his eyes drift over you again, harder than before, and he’s annoyed, _well that’s too bad._

“Can I at least…”

“No.” 

Jaw clenches. Works. Ortega never knows when to not push, when to not be that wonder boy so full of heart, head first into the action, and you’re _small potatoes_ so what the fuck is he doing here, really, with you? There’s a dozen other vigilantes in Los Diablos that would probably work with him, that would fall for his knockout smile twice as fast and twice as hard.

(oh, you’ve _fallen_ alright, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

But he knows you. He does. More and less than he thinks he does. And he knows you’re not bluffing. You’ll leave. 

Shoulders still raised, jaw still stubborn, he slowly nods and steps back. You feel relief unshutter in your chest. “Alright,” he sighs, slumps.

Does he want you to stay? Or does he just want to make sure you don’t pass out in some grimy back alley to get picked over?

It doesn’t really matter.

(why is he letting this go that easily?)

“If you say it’s not that bad, I’ll believe you,” he nods, and it feels like a lie, sticks around in your skin the way lying does when someone lies with their mouth but not with their thoughts. “Just let me know if I can do anything, alright?” Smile, again, he’s always smiling except when he isn’t, effortlessly charming. 

“...Okay.” You mutter. There isn’t anything he can do, and you both know you won’t ask.

You stand off, not flinching and not moving as he steps back, hands twitching at his sides—to raise them in surrender or grab you, you don’t know, so as soon as he’s through the door you grab it, slam it closed, lock it fast.

Safe. Or as safe as you can be.

Fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr @forestcreatures


End file.
